


I See You

by SteadyLittleSoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ghost Sherlock, M/M, Spirit Sherlock, just like heaven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteadyLittleSoldier/pseuds/SteadyLittleSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson falls in love with the spirit of Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Get Sherlock"

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely on the movie _Just Like Heaven._

>   
> _I see you_   
> _Walking through a dream_   
> _I see you_   
> _My light in darkness breathing hope of new life_   
> _Now I live through you and you through me,_   
> _Enchanting_   
> _I pray in my heart that this dream never ends_   
> _I see me through your eyes_   
> 
> 
> \- Leona Lewis  
> 

_How could Lestrade be so ridiculous?!_  
Sherlock stormed out of the museum, murmuring this under his breath, Lestrade followed behind.  


‘Look, now no need to get all sulky about it.’  


Keeping his eyes on the road, searching for a cab Sherlock replied, ‘I was in the middle of an important experiment.’ He said through gritted teeth.  


‘Does it include keeping human eyes in the microwave?’ Lestrade started laughing which immediately stopped as he received a glare from Sherlock.  


‘If you can’t find anything interesting for me, at least don’t try to bore me to death with these ridiculous pranks. My time is too precious to waste on these craps.’  


‘Well it seemed very serious at first.’  


It was true, it did seem important; at least to Scotland Yard, it did.  


The first thing Sherlock received about the case was a picture of a bloody severed hand, it’s index finger sticking out pointing something that couldn’t be seen on the screen. The picture was sent by Lestrade. The hand was bloody alright, but Sherlock knew real blood when he saw it, as he could tell a real piece of cadaver. The severed hand was a fake, as was the blood. But the hand’s index finger was pointing towards something, something that Lestrade couldn't risk sending him.  


By the time Sherlock reached the spot, people were crowding the place, taking pictures of the hand and to where it was pointing. So Lestrade’s endeavor to keep it quite was a fruitless effort. Police were trying to barricade the area from public and made way for Sherlock.  


Lying on the museum floor was the fake hand, Sherlock trailed his eyes towards what it was pointing at. Written with the same fake blood on the pale wall there were two little words “GET SHERLOCK”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes as Lestrade half-walked and half-ran towards him. Lestrade could tell by the look on his face that how pissed he was with him.  


So it was a prank, according to Sherlock. Someone, a good artist, might have done it for a bit of attention. It must have been all over the social media by then, as everyone was taking pictures, and it would surprise Sherlock if it wasn't featured in the next day’s newspaper.  


Finally Sherlock hailed a cab, offering Lestarde a few more insults and Lestrade gulping them without protest. The taxi trailed away as Lestrade sighed in the winter air.  


Sherlock’s phone beeped once. He checked the text, it was from Mike Stamford.  


_If you are free, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine. He’s looking for a flat-share._

Sherlock immediately remembered talking to Mike Stamford about flat-share.

_My flat in ten minutes._  
SH

Sherlock texted back.  


He began to think how this old friend of Mike would be. Because he wouldn't be able to handle it if it was anyone as annoyingly thick as Anderson, or a person who wouldn't keep quite like Molly, or as nosy as his brother. He would need someone who keep quite when needed, who wouldn't mantle with his things and share the rent of course.  


He was busy thinking how inconvenient it could be, when a loud horn distracted him. His eyes blinded with bright white light as he looked sideways through the cab window. The next second he heard a crashing sound and felt a severe pain and then…he knew nothing more.


	2. No Show

Grass, there was a lot of grass. Firing. Someone was down, he was screaming; he was in excruciating pain. Light, too bright, his eyes were burning. And then all of a sudden the fallen man was… _him_. The agonizing pain started to materialize on his shoulder…and his leg. He’d been shot, _he_ was down.

There was grass, lots of grass and too bright light. He wanted to scream, but his voice wouldn’t come, he couldn’t move. He used all his strength to yell or move. Paralyzed with pain, he shouted in his mind, “HELP!”, but he couldn’t find his voice. Using all his strength, his chest tight and heavy, he shouted.

John's eyes shot open, he was on his bed, panting. A terrible pain on his leg and shoulder. He had been shot on his shoulder in Afghanistan, but he didn’t know where the leg pain came from. He tried to fall back to sleep, but the flashes came back … he couldn’t stop them. Neither could he stop himself from sobbing, no matter how hard he tried.

He gave up trying and got up. It was four in the morning, that’s when the nightmare usually came. He’d been staying at a hotel since he came back. His pension didn’t allow him much luxury. _Luxury… like I ever knew what that was_ , he thought to himself. Not that he wanted it either. All he wanted was comfort and to settle down; perhaps his nightmares would spare him then.

He was so glad to meet an old friend, Mike Stamford, yesterday who had given him hope by informing him that there was a man who needed a flat-mate. But Mike and he waited for the man, he didn’t turn up. After waiting for more than an hour they left the flat and Mike promised that he would try to get in touch with the man again later.

So John phoned Mike to know what became of the meeting. It rang twice before Mike picked up.

“Hello, Mike.”

“John, hi.”

“Yeah I phoned you to know about the flat-share.”

Mike paused for a moment and sighed. “Sorry, mate. Mr. Holmes isn’t available at the moment.”

“Sure, I can wait. When can I meet him?”

“I don’t know actually. You better look for other options. ”

“Look, Mike, I told you the other day, I failed to find any other place and I really need this.”

Mike paused again. “Okay, do one thing, why don’t you go to the place and talk to the landlady, maybe she can help you.”

So he did, he went to Baker Street. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson warmly welcomed him and told him that he could take a look at the flat before warning him not to touch any of this Mr. Holmes’ stuff. According to Mrs. Hudson he didn’t like his things to be touched at all.

John hadn’t looked around yesterday when he and Mike had been waiting for the other tenant, Sherlock Holmes; they thought it would be best to just wait for him and rather let _him_ show John the flat.

The flat was very nice and bright, and, after asking about it, the rent, when split, was perfect. So John asked Mrs. Hudson when Mr. Holmes would be back and when he can move in, if that was okay with Mr. Holmes.

“Oh I don’t know when Sherlock will be back actually. I mean it’s usual for him to not return for days sometimes.” She said thoughtfully. “But I think you can move in if you like.” She smiled brightly, looking at John with hopeful eyes. Probably she felt lonely living here on her own.

“Sure, but don’t you think Mr. Holmes would mind?”

“I don’t think so; he wanted a flat mate to split the rent. Besides he could be gone for weeks, you don’t really know it with Sherlock.”

From what Mrs. Hudson said, Mr. Sherlock Holmes seemed like an odd and, in a way, fascinating person. And so John moved in 221B the next day, without any knowledge of when his flat mate would be back. But till he hadn’t, John had the flat to himself.


	3. A Very Strange Flat-mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock turns up. But it seems that he doesn't want the poor doctor here.

It was very comfortable living in 221B; John’s bedroom was on the second floor, which he had now decorated with his things. The living room was filled with Sherlock’s things and the kitchen too was filled with science equipment. John cleared just enough so he could carry on his daily works without stumbling, and planned to ask Sherlock to clear those when he had arrived. But days turned to a week and he didn’t come. John started to wonder where he could be. Was he on holiday? No, Mrs. Hudson said it was usual for him to stay out that long, so it must be work then. What kind of work? There were science equipment on the table, so he was a man of science? There was a stack of newspaper by the door – perhaps he had an OCD? There were piles of documents on the desk and some on the floor, which John dared not touch because of the warning he had got. Finally he gave up figuring out what this man’s profession was.

So the next morning John got down to ask Mr. Hudson more about his new flat mate, when he found a note on her door. It read-

_John dear, I’m at my sister’s place. You were sleeping, so I didn't wake you up, and I was in a hurry. Don’t lock your keys inside again, I won’t be here! -Mrs. Hudson_

Mrs. Hudson didn’t leave a phone number or address so John could contact her. He was _practically_ alone in this house now. So he got upstairs again, deciding to wait for her return.

John almost fell backwards when he opened the door of the flat. He shut the door instantly, instead of going inside. He couldn’t decide whether he should get his gun from upstairs or should he open the door and check if what he saw was real or a hallucination. John thought the latter to be wise and taking a deep breath he opened the door.

There was a man crouching on the chair beside the fireplace, a curly haired, pale man; his long legs curled up on the chair, his knees touching his chin, and his hands wrapped around his legs. He was no hallucination, he was very much real.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the man, with a frown but rather relaxing for a man who wasn’t supposed to be where he was.

“I might ask you the same question!” It took John a little while to answer. “In fact, I _should_ be the one asking that.”

The man stood up to reveal his lanky, six-foot-something body. He was perfectly dressed, in a purple shirt, black jacket and trousers, a long black coat over it and a blue scarf artfully wrapped around his, what seemed like a long and pale neck. John felt like he was being scanned by his light blue- _no, green; no, grey; but there was brown too_ – penetrating eyes. John frowned at him.

“Army doctor, unoccupied, psychosomatic limp; what do you want in my flat?” He finally spoke up.

“How the hell did you know all that? And what do you mean your flat? This is _my_ flat.” And then it hit him. “Wait, are you Sherlock Holmes?”

He put his hands in his pockets and straightened up. “I. . . am?”

John couldn’t make out if it was an answer or a confused question. But he took it as a yes as he was expecting this man to be a little strange.

“Hi, I’m John Watson." John smiled politely at him. "I was looking for a flat-share, so...” he added when the man didn't respond. 

“So you moved in?”

“Yeah, well Mrs. Hudson said it would be okay with you if I move in.”

“Mrs. Hudson?” he looked away as he said that and it seemed to John he was rather talking to himself.

“You needed a flat-mate, didn’t you?” said John, very confused this time by his repeating questions.

“I needed a flat-mate?” he looked at John now.

“That’s . . . what . . . Mike said. Something wrong?”

“No, no, everything is fine." Sherlock fixed his features. "You didn’t touch any of my stuff, did you?” 

“Not much, I was warned not to.”

An awkward silence fell while Sherlock looked around the flat without leaving the spot, his eyes moving like trailing a snake.

“So your work is done?” John asked to break the silence.

Sherlock startled and frowned at him. “What, what work?”

“Mrs. Hudson said you might not be back for weeks. I assumed it was because of work.”

“Oh yes, yes, done.” He said promptly.

“What do you do, by the way?

“Where’s Mrs. Hud. . . Hudson? I need to talk to her.”

“Umm, she’s gone to her sister’s.” John stammered. “Something wrong?” he asked again.

Sherlock started to pace towards John slowly. “Look Dr. Watson, umm John, I need you to leave my flat as soon as possible.” In his endeavor to be as polite as he could, John could sense a tinge of impatience.

“I don’t . . . understand.” A smile of confusion appeared on John’s face. “You wanted a flat-mate and Mrs. Hudson-"

Sherlock closed his eyes impatiently. “Yes, I wanted one but now I don’t.”

It seemed unfair to John; he couldn’t just kick him out, the flat was half his too now!

“If you have any complaints about me . . .”

“I don’t have anything against you. I just want this flat on my own for the moment, that’s all.”

He stared at John for an answer which didn’t come until thirty seconds later, while he decided.

“Okay. . . okay, I’ll move, but not until I find another place. And I’ll try not to disturb you much while I’m here.”

With that said John turned on his heels and left for his room, slamming the door shut behind him.

John spent the next half an hour pacing the room furiously. He doubted if Sherlock could hear his footsteps and if he did, he’ll obviously know the reason; but John didn’t care if he did. He should know that he was downright rude. And why would Mrs. Hudson tell him to move in if her tenant was such a dick. John was a bit mad at Mrs. Hudson too. Where was he to go all of a sudden? How could he find another flat in such a short notice? 

When John noticed that the pacing was doing nothing but to pain his already painful leg and exhaust him, he sat down on his bed and turned on his laptop. He decided to write down his not-so-pleasant encounter with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. His therapist, Ella had suggested to write everything that happened to him and said that it'd help. After passing half an hour on it, he stopped and looked at the screen; it was his first decent blog entry since he started. And somehow that lessened his fury.


	4. Poof

The next morning John was descending the stairs to make himself a cup of coffee when he met Sherlock at the kitchen door. Both of his hands were buried in his pockets and he seemed to be watching John very carefully. Sherlock wouldn't budge up, so John stopped just outside, and met his eyes.

Sherlock didn't break his gaze and John again felt like he was being scanned. He just stood there frowning.

“You’re still here.” Sherlock said. It wasn't a question.

“Yes, I am.” said John, after taking a few seconds to come up with what he should say. “You can’t possibly expect me to find another flat in one day.” he added. 

Sherlock puckered his lips and gave a look that John couldn't quite interpret. But thankfully Sherlock moved aside and let John in. John walked inside, eyeing Sherlock while doing so.

“Thank you.” John said sarcastically. To which Sherlock didn't reply.

John put the kettle on and got his Royal Army Medical Corps coffee mug. John turned to find Sherlock still standing there, staring at the back of his head.

“Something wrong?” asked John.

“You say that a lot, you know.” Sherlock smirked to see John puzzled. “You moved some of my things from here, didn't you?” he pointed at the table.

“I had to.”

“But Mrs. Hudson told you not to touch my things.”

“I said I had to move some of the things. I moved the minimum amount, or I wouldn't be able to work here at all. This table was _filled_ with your things.”

Sherlock looked at the table now and said in one breath while pointing out the places with his long index finger, “You pushed the spot plate aside, the watch glass was _here_ , the beaker was _there_ , and the clamp _there_ , the dropper pipet found its way _inside_ the buret, I had left it on the stove, the Erlenmeyer flask is _on_ the table now and it was most definitely _under_ it, and God knows what you've done with the Bunsen burner, it was there by the fridge.” He paused for a moment, and his eyes hovered around John's head, then a mischievous smile appeared on his face. “Oh, the burner is inside the cupboard.”

John realized his mouth was slightly open only when Sherlock stopped and looked at him. He didn't know what to say. _What is this man?!_ he thought to himself. He couldn't tell if Sherlock was even mad at him for touching his things, because Sherlock was _smirking_! 

“Yeah…it is.” John said a few seconds later, still goggling at him with a dumbfound expression. “Sorry, how could you tell where exactly the things were?” he asked promptly.

Sherlock sniggered. “Oh please. Get the _point_ , I want you out of this place.” With that said he headed towards his bedroom, the door of which was already open. He slipped in, leaving the door open behind him.

John tried to suppress his anger with all his strength, but he just lost it. “You can’t just kick me out.” He almost shouted and followed Sherlock to his bedroom door. “This flat is half mine to at the moment-“

John’s voice died down. He stood still at the door of Sherlock's bedroom, his mouth open, his eyes wide with astonishment and searching for Sherlock in the empty room. It was _empty_. There was nobody there.

“Hello?” John stepped in, looking around. “Mr. Holmes?”

There was no Mr. Holmes.

_How could be have just vanished? Like poof. I just saw him going in a second ago!_

John instantly looked at the window. He walked towards it and looked out of it. It wasn't possible for someone to jump out of that window and not break a bone or two; that’s if they weren't highly trained for stuff like that. And it seemed unlikely for Sherlock to have jumped out of the window just to ignore John. So he put that idea aside and looked around. 

_He must be here somewhere._

There was a dressing cabinet by the wall, it was a silly notion but he opened it and checked inside anyway. As expected, Sherlock wasn't in it.

_What were you thinking; he’d be hiding inside the cabinet? _– John thought to himself. The bed was, of course, empty.__

John put his hands on his hips and stood in front of the bed, _very_ confused by now, running out of ideas where his flat-mate had disappeared to. It seemed Sherlock _had_ , in fact, just vanished. _Poof_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a bit of time to upload. I was a bit sick and busy too with coaching for my exam and stuff. "But the holiday's over", eh? And also my siblings are very pissed with my "obsession" with reading/writing fanfiction, which shouldn't bother them at all, and don't want me to use the computer now(like that's gonna happen). However I'll post the next chapter as soon as possible, it's half done already.
> 
> Anyway, if you see any mistakes here, just point it out politely and I'll send you virtual love! ;)


	5. Come Along, Dr. Watson

A week or so had passed since John’s peculiar encounter with his flat-mate, and John had seen little of Sherlock after that; he could only be seen pacing soundlessly in the living room or lingering in the kitchen, or just crouching on his chair by the fire-place. And in all those encounters, John had never seen him out of that coat and scarf. But most of the time John would go to the living room and find it empty, for which he was always thankful.

To ignore bumping into Sherlock Holmes at all John had his meals out mostly, and spent most of his time out, looking for a flat sometimes. But when his paining leg could not carry him anymore, he had to retire to the flat, praying Sherlock was out. Almost every time his wish was granted. And when it was not, Sherlock would make it easy by not noticing him at all. It sometimes seemed to John that Sherlock didn't see that he was even there. John wondered if his presence bothered him at all; so Sherlock wanting him out of this flat seemed pointless. 

However, John decided he should finally tell Sherlock that he had failed to find another flat and if it would be okay with him if he stayed a bit longer. _It’s only decent_ – thought John, _No matter how much of a dick he is._ And as much as he hated to admit it, John was in fact very curious to know where Sherlock had gone to that day; and he wanted some answers.

So John plucked up the courage and went downstairs one evening to find Sherlock sitting on the couch this time and staring down at the morning paper, his hands together under his chin, and yes, fully dressed. John followed his gaze down and found him staring at the front page of the paper, where a woman’s picture could be seen with a title that had something to do with suicide and poison.

"Mr. Holmes." John called. 

"Hmm?" he said without looking as John, his features very still and focused.

John didn't move from his spot.

"I wanted to let you know that… that I couldn't find another flat. So… It wouldn't be too inconvenient to-"

"Hm." said he, which John took as a yes. 

"Okay.’ Said John and turned around to head towards his bedroom, but he was just too bloody curious and he had to ask. “Umm listen, that day…where-“

Before John could finish, Sherlock got up and walked towards John abruptly.

“You’re a doctor. An army doctor in fact.”

Sherlock came even closer, his pace unhurried now and his voice profound.

“Yes. Though I still don’t know how you know this.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, violent deaths?”

“Enough for a lifetime, far too much.”

“Want to see some more?”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment. “Oh God, yes.”

An impish smile appeared on Sherlock’s face. “Come along then, Dr. Watson.” Having said that, Sherlock rushed down the stairs, swishing his coat.


	6. The Magic Word

John dashed upstairs to get his coat, and ran out instantly, when it hit him. He was forgetting something. He stopped short at the door of his bedroom. It took him a few seconds to realize what it was. He turned around slowly and saw it. There it was, leaning against the wall – his forgotten walking stick. John still needed that. His limp was bad enough to require a walking stick to help him walk properly; and yet he almost _ran_ upstairs without it. In his haste (and excitement) he hadn't realize the pain in his leg.

So John limped back into the room and took the walking stick. He hated this thing.

He found Sherlock waiting for him on the corridor by the stair. Sherlock looked at his walking stick for a second and rolled his eyes.

“Is there a problem?” John asked as he descended the stairs.

“Your limp is psychosomatic. You don’t need that stick.”

“Yes, you told me that once before but that doesn't make the pain go away.” John snapped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, seeing how sensitive he was about these things. “Go ahead and hail a cab. We’re going to Brixton.”

John looked at him with furrowed brows. _Still a bossy little shit._

“Please.” Sherlock added promptly but with much difficulty.

John did as he was told; he hailed a cab and told the driver their destination. But when he opened the door of the cab, before he could go inside, Sherlock hastened in and seated himself. John held the door open with one hand and just stared at Sherlock in astonishment. _He has no manners at all._

Sensing the delay, Sherlock looked at him and said, “Well, come on.” Like that wasn't rude at all.

John jerked his head to shake it off and ignore what just happened, and got in.

John obviously had some questions, a lot a questions for that matter. Once the taxi cab started, John thought it wouldn't be a bad time to start asking.

“What’s in Brixton?” John finally asked Sherlock.

“Eh?” asked the driven.

“Oh, wasn't talking to you.” John said to the driver.

“Crime scene.” said Sherlock.

“Crime scene? For what?” asked John.

“What didcha say, mate?” asked the driver again.

“Not you!” said John, annoyed by the driver.

“I’m just going to take a look around.” said Sherlock.

“Are you allowed there? Won’t there be police?”

“I know the detective inspector who is in charge there.”

“But that doesn't mean you can just burst into a crime scene and ‘take a look around’.”

“Oh please do relax. And I’m not going to _burst in_.”

“So the police called you?”

Sherlock looked down at his crossed fingers on his lap. “Not really.”

John clapped his hands. “Aha! So you _are_ gonna burst in.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If that’s what you call bursting in, then you’re doing it as well.”

“What?! No! I’m doing no such thing!”

“I want you to do me a favor.” Said Sherlock. John gave him a look. “What?”

“If you want a favor you better sound like you’re asking for a favor.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock was clueless.

“You forgot the magic word.” John goofed; a playful grin crept across his face.

Sherlock let out a big heavy sigh. “Please.”

“That wasn't so hard, was it?” John chuckled to have tamed the arrogant man a little. “What do you need?”

The last sentence took Sherlock by surprise. He looked at John. In spite of his goofy smile, it sounded like John really wanted to help him. Why would he be so eager to help Sherlock? To help a man who almost kicked him out of the flat?

Perhaps it was his nature... Sherlock unconsciously made a new entry in his mind palace.


	7. A Favour

“What?! Why would I _mention_ you?” John spat in surprise.

And Sherlock just lost count of how many times he had rolled his eyes because of this man. Sherlock had just started to give John the instructions, and before he could even finish his first sentence, John interrupted. 

“Does that mean you’re gonna send me there alone?” John asked abruptly.

“Will you just listen to me properly first?” Sherlock snapped.

“Okay, go on then.”

“So you’re going to go in there and ask for the detective inspector who is in charge there; his name is Lestrade. And you will _mention_ my name; tell him that I've sent you. After that you’ll do exactly as I instruct you.”

John stared at him with his mouth slightly open. “And it’s the favor that you were talking about?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. Just do as I ask.”

John thought it was best not to ask any more questions just yet. So he stopped talking as questions after questions stacked up in his mind.

All the while the cab driver had been stealing glances of them, staring at John through the rear-view mirror and hastily looking away whenever John noticed him glaring.

“What is wrong with him?” John mouthed to Sherlock, motioning at the cab driver.

Sherlock lowered his gaze and blinked several times. He wasn't much jovial all throughout the ride, but now a sudden gloom came across his expression. He looked out of the window and said with his deep voice, ignoring John’s statement, “We’re almost there.”

…

“Brixton, sir.” announced the cabbie when the taxi came to a halt, looking at John through the rear-view mirror again, but not looking away this time, which meant he was referring to John for the fare. John looked at Sherlock, who had been staring out through the window for the remaining of their ride to Brixton.

“So I’ll just pay then, shall I?” declared John. 

Even that didn't make Sherlock turn around. So Sherlock was just expecting John to pay? Wasn't _he_ the one to bring John along? – thought John.

John didn't give it much thought and paid the fare. John collected his walking stick and got out of the cab. Sherlock hurried himself out after John, so John had to hold the cab door open for him.

It was dark outside; tiny drops of rain hitting their face every now and then as they walked towards an old building surrounded by police cars, tapes and officials. Sherlock was in lead, as John followed him.

“Do you remember everything I told you?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes.”

Sherlock stopped in front of the yellow tape where a female officer paused her strolling and glared at them. She looked at John, raising one eye brow; obviously waiting for them to say why they were here, which John rather hoped would be coming from Sherlock. But it didn't.

When the silence became too awkward, John broke it. “Umm…hi.”

“This is Sergeant Donovan. Tell her that Sherlock Holmes has sent you.” Sherlock told John.

It took John by surprise that he should say this to the sergeant. Sherlock was standing _there_ , right next to him; the sergeant could see him, she could hear him. Then why he needed John to _tell_ her that?

John gaped at Sherlock in bafflement.

“Wha-?” John started.

“Don’t ask any questions, just do as I say.” said Sherlock before John could finish.

Sergeant Donovan furrowed her brows when John changed quick glances from Sherlock to her, while Sherlock continued to stare at John, pressing him.

“Please.” Sherlock added.

Still confused about what the hell was going on, John gave in.

“I…I’m Dr. John Watson, I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock Holmes sent me.” John stammered.

Sergeant Donovan’s confused look changed into a horrid expression.

“What?” she squawked. “ _Who_ sent you?”

“Sherlock Holmes sent me.” John repeated.

Sergeant Donovan stared at him for a few seconds without blinking. “Wait here, please.”

Saying that the sergeant walked a few paces away from John, and brought her walkie-talkie to her mouth. Eyeing John very warily, she said on the walkie-talkie, “Sir, there is a Dr. Watson here to see you.”

John didn't quite appreciate the way the sergeant was looking at him, like he was guilty for something. But he was not; he was just doing someone a favour! He shifted uncomfortably where he was standing. 

A man’s voice from the other side of the walkie-talkie could be heard saying with the same amount of confusion, “Who?”

“Dr. Watson.” Donovan repeated.

“I don’t know any Dr. Watson!” the man sounded annoyed.

“He says…he says _freak_ sent him.”

The man on the other side paused for a moment; it seemed like he had stopped breathing.

When he talked the next time, his voice was much less annoyed, deep and solemn.

“Bring him in.”


	8. Could Be Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Greg Lestrade; and a little advice from Sally.

Greg Lestrade had sent him a sorry text. But Sherlock didn't reply, which was odd because he always replied to everything. Greg had just assumed that he was mad at him for calling him for a case which had actually turned out to be a prank. He had sent a few more texts anyway and planned to stop by 221B on his way home. But when he went there, he was informed by Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock hadn’t come back since he left that afternoon. He should have been worried if it weren't Sherlock, but Greg knew better; it wasn’t unusual for Sherlock not to show up for a day or two. But by the end of that week Greg did began to wonder. He had texted Sherlock about various cases, requesting him to come and take a look, but Sherlock didn't reply to any of it. It was not that his phone was switched off, the text messages were delivered. By the time the serial suicides hit the papers, Greg was desperate. Greg called him, but as he had thought, Sherlock didn't pick it up.

By the time Greg had left over thirty texts and called him over twenty times, he got a call from Sherlock’s elder brother, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft trusted him enough to answer a few of his question honestly; though the things he said didn’t make everything clear but it was enough for then. But in exchange for his answers, Mycroft made Greg promise his silence. Mycroft didn't make any threats though, he knew he didn't need that with Greg.

Greg knew Mycroft. He knew that behind that pretty face, there was a brain that was probably even cleverer than Sherlock’s, and that he was powerful. And it was better to do whatever he asked. He also knew that Mycroft loved his little brother more than anything, and he’ll do whatever he can to protect him. Though Greg wouldn’t keep his promise just because Mycroft had powers, he would because he cared for Sherlock (and for his big brother too, but it was quite a hush-hush). 

But he was very surprised when a man came to meet him saying Sherlock had sent him; which was not only odd but impossible- from what Mycroft had told him. When Sally Donovan brought him to Greg, he could see the man and he could tell that he was a bit hesitated.

“Who are you?” said Greg.

“I just said actually, I’m Dr. John-"

“No seriously, who are you? Do you have an ID card or something.”

The man handed him a card.

“So you were in the army?” said Greg, checking the card. “How do you know Sherlock?”

“I’m his flat-mate.”

“Flat-mate, okay. But why would Sherlock sent you? Sherlock Holmes just doesn't _send_ people.”

The shorter man hesitated for a moment, looked sideways and didn't answer. He didn't seem to Greg to be a dangerous man, Greg rather thought he shouldn't be so rough on him.

“Donovan, you can go back to your duty now.” Greg said to Sally. He turned to John again. “Why didn't he come himself?”

The man took a moment before saying, “Because you bored him to death with the last case?” It sounded rather like a question.

Greg gaped at him.

“Look, Inspector Lestrade, I’m just doing him a favour.” added John.

“A favour?”

“Yes, a favour. And if you’d be kind enough to let me take a look at the crime scene, just two minutes, I’ll be off.”

“Why would I let you go there?”

John sighed. “Because Sherlock Holmes wants me to, and I can help you with the case.”

“I don’t need help!”

“Yes, you do. You’re desperate.”

Greg’s jaw dropped, he stared at the man for a moment. “Yeah, I do. God help me.” said Greg, rather to himself. “You were in the army so I guess I can trust you then.” Greg smiled. “But if you breathe a word of this, I promise I’ll leave you in my boy—a friend's hand; he occupies a position in the government, mind you.” he chuckled.

John frowned. “That’s amusing.”

“What is?”

“Nothing.”

“Right, follow me then, Dr. Watson.”

John limped behind Greg as he led the way to a room upstairs. On their way up Greg told him some facts about the dead woman.

They were met by a rat-faced man who frowned at John and asked, “Who’s he?”

“Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.” Greg answered.

“Yeah, but who is _he_?”

“Do as you’re told please.”

Anderson gaped at them as Greg continued climbing the stairs without answering his question, with John in the wake.

…

Greg stood back and watched John Watson checking the dead woman’s body, pausing uncertainly every now and then. This went on for almost five minutes, and Greg got a little impatient. He wanted to know if this John Watson was any good at all.

“Got anything?” asked Greg as John started checking something on his phone.

“Umm… yes.”

Greg’s jaw dropped as he listened carefully to what John had to say. John also explained how he figured all these out.

“That’s amazing, you’re almost like Sherlock.”

“Ah, well…” John looked at his feet. “I wonder- I wonder if I may leave now?”

“Yeah, sure. Donovan will show you out. Thanks by the way”

John smiled politely and left.

…

“You’re not his friend though, are you?” said Sally as John ducked under the tape.

“Sorry?”

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh. I… I moved into his flat actually, we’re flat-mates, that’s all. I only met him a few days ago.”

“You met him days ago?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Only he hasn't turned up here. Even when Greg called, he didn't; and you’re saying you've met him.”

“Oh.” John looked around. “I’ll be off then, Sergeant Donovan.” John turned around to leave.

“Bit of advice then Dr. Watson, stay away from that guy. Could be dangerous.” said Sally from behind.

“Dangerous.” John repeated, under his breath, as he started to walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • I haven't given much details of the case because I gather everybody has watched the episode _A Study In Pink_ , and it would be rather boring for the readers to read all the details of it here.  
> • Mystrade! A little mention of Mystrade, because I couldn't help it!  
> • There _might_ be the revelation of the truth(a part of it) in the next chapter so I'm really excited to write it!


	9. Walking Through Walls

“No, I will not be doing a single thing you say until you explain what is going on!” John almost shouted the words. He just couldn't act like a puppet and do whatever Sherlock asked him to anymore. 

They were out in the main road now. It was dark and John failed to find any cab. So he started walking, while Sherlock had been nagging him to go to the other direction to find some pink case, but following him all the same.

“There is no time to explain, we've got to find the case.” huffed Sherlock 

“Yeah, you do that, I’ll just go home.”

“ _Home?_ May I remind you, I asked you to move out?”

John stopped in his tracks, looked Sherlock in the eye and said through gritted teeth. “And may I remind you that I just did you a _favour_ , a _big_ one, and I think I've earned at least six months of stay. So instead of being such a cock, you can jolly well say thank you.”

Sherlock sighed and looked down at his shoes. After a few seconds later he said under his breath, “I’m sorry?” making it sound like a question. 

John could tell that it took all he had got to say those two little words and that he wasn't even sure why he was saying that. But he did say it, and that’s what John appreciated.

Sherlock looked up now. “And thank you, for the—“ he motioned somewhere behind him. John took it he meant the crime scene. 

Both of them took a moment to calm down, and exchanged apologetic smiles.

“ _Now_ will you come with me to find the pink case?”

“No.”

Sherlock frowned. “But I just said sorry, isn't that what you’re supposed to do?”

John chuckled and shook this head. “You said sorry so I would come with you, you prat.”

“Well…” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

A grin stretched across his face. John noticed how he gleamed even in the street lamp’s dim light, like he was glowing from the inside. John thought it must have been his beautiful complexion. A mild smile played on his own face as he observed how innocent he looked with that big grin on his face like a twelve year old playful boy. Anyone would forgive that man, no matter how much of a dick he can be sometimes.

“So are you coming with me?”

“I stick to what I said; you've got to explain what’s happening.”

Sherlock sighed again, but it was not of annoyance. The grin disappeared slowly from his face, a sudden sadness gloomed over his expression. He broke their eye contact. “Must I?” his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you must.” said John softly.

“Not here.”

Sherlock started walking to the other direction, gesturing John to follow him. John followed in hurried pace. The streets became more still and deserted as they were walking towards their destination.

“Where are you taking me?” said John.

“Somewhere quite.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

“Why do you always have to be so mysterious?” joked John, making Sherlock smirk. Though John couldn't pretend he didn't like that about Sherlock.

He led John into a sloppy alleyway. Sherlock turned on his heels to face John, they stood face to face in the narrow alley, only pale walls behind them. It was dark but they could see each other in the yellowish lights of the street lamps.

John looked around the place. “Very nice place.” said John sarcastically.

“What do you want to know?” said Sherlock, ignoring his last statement.

“You know what I want to know.”

“No, you have to say it- what do you want to know?”

“Okay, right. Why did you bring me here and make me repeat the things you say to those people? You made assumptions about the dead woman—" 

“I didn't make _assumptions_ , I deduced!”

John glared at him. “I thought this was my turn to talk.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Alright, do go on.”

“So you _deduced_ stuff about the dead woman, I got your method alright but then you made me repeat those to Lestrade. And they all pretended that you weren't even there and they couldn't hear you. Why?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and said in a small voice. “They acted the way they did because they _couldn't_ see or hear me.”

John frowned at him for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. “Are you trying to be funny?”

Sherlock didn't answer; he kept staring at John with the same expression as John’s laugh gradually turned into a frown. He stared back at Sherlock with a blank expression. Sherlock might have been a good actor, but John could tell from the look on his face that he was not joking now.

“What are you saying?”

Sherlock still didn't answer. Instead, he began to pace backwards ever so slowly, locking his gaze. He stopped for a second when his back touched the wall of the alleyway, and then took another step backwards.

John’s jaw dropped. He sucked in a deep breath through his open mouth that refused to come out. He couldn't believe his eyes; he couldn't believe the surreal scene in front of him. There stood Sherlock, one foot inside the wall and the other out. Half of him seemed to have been plastered in the wall.

As Sherlock took another step backwards, he was completely inside the wall. John couldn't see him anymore. He just stood there dumbfounded, staring at the blank wall.


	10. Wisp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective finally opens up. But is any of it true, or is it all in John's mind?

“What are you?”

John let out the breath he was unknowingly holding, and found his voice. John’s mind had stopped working. He gaped at the man standing in front of him, solid as any other human being, and mouthed again, “What are you?”

“What do you mean _what_ am I? I’m _human_. Have you dragged yourself down to Anderson’s level that you can’t even differentiate species?”

John’s browns knitted. “Just so you know, humans can’t walk through walls!” he snapped.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. His features changed from a very cross expression to rather a miserable one as he let out a frustrated sigh. “I found myself in 221B, I knew I lived there and I found a complete stranger living there with me.” He motioned to John. “I couldn't remember anything apart from this; I didn't know who I was or what I did, I didn't even know how I went there. Come to think of it, I _still_ don’t know how I went there. But you unintentionally told me that my name is Sherlock Holmes. You also told me about Mrs. Hudson. I thought if I interrogated her, I could get some answers; as, according to you, she was my landlady. But as you informed me, she wasn't home. It was all very baffling, it still is, so I wanted the flat to myself and asked you to find another one. After you left the room, I tried to search the flat for any clues. That’s when I found out that I couldn't touch anything; I was, nicely put, John, walking through walls. For all I knew, it wasn't something you could call normal. There wasn't any reasonable explanation that would justify this state. I kept thinking but nothing came to me. The next day when you came downstairs, I just couldn't stand you being so comfortable in my flat; sleeping, eating like a normal human being. It was so infuriating that I hadn't noticed that I had just given you the exact details of the positions of my science equipment. So my memory was coming back. I spend the next few days applying different theories, but…nothing. I had figured out that no one else could see me…except _you_ , John. Only you see me. I read the papers you left on the table, without being able to turn it I could only read the first page. But today when I saw Lestrade’s face on the paper, I realized I knew this man. I read about the case and it all came to me, I remembered that I worked with Lestrade. When you came downstairs, the idea struck me. If I couldn't figure out what was happening to me, I couldn't touch anything, no one could see me, so I had to admit I didn't have any chance of figuring it out on my own. Besides, the case looked interesting. And I thought I could use you- I mean… you could help me. With the case, and…”

John blinked several times, realizing he hadn't blinked at all while Sherlock had been talking. He took a deep breath. “Has it occurred to you that you might be… _dead_?” he stammered.

“Oh please.” Sherlock snorted. “Do you think I’m _haunting_ you and the flat? I think I would know if I were dead. And I wouldn't be here at all, would I?”

“That’s what a dead person would say.”

“Oh you would know, of course.” said Sherlock sarcastically.

“You’re dead. There must be a light there somewhere, just walk towards it.” John dramatically hovered his hands.

“John, I’m not dead! Stop saying that. And there’s no light!” Sherlock half-yelled.

John looked away and started talking rather to himself. “I know what’s happening then.”

“You do?”

“Shell shock.”

“What?!”

“That’s the only explanation. That’s why only I see you. Ella said this might happen. I’m hallucinating.”

Sherlock frowned at John and folded his hands upon his chest. “You know you question my whole existence by it. And do you think _you_ deduced all the things about the dead woman in Brixton? Don’t flatter yourself, John.” he sniggered. 

That brought John’s attention back. He took a moment to consider the fact. “Right…right. I’m gonna go home and call Ella.” John turned and started walking.

“She’ll think you've gone mad.” Sherlock said from behind.

John stopped and squeezed his eyes shut. It pained him to face the truth, and he was hurt enough already. “Perhaps because I _am_ going mad.” He whispered.

John could hear Sherlock pacing towards him slowly. Sherlock sighed and said in his deep voice, “I know this is very confusing, I am in a worse position than you are, John. When I’m not with you, it feels like…I don’t _exist_.”

For the first time that night John thought about how Sherlock might have been feeling, that’s because he hadn't, for once, considered the whole thing to be true. But if it was true, then Sherlock’s position must have been terrible beyond imagining. As he opened his eyes and turned to look at him, he found him staring down at him with the saddest expression John had ever seen on him, and he felt terribly sorry for the man.

“I’m sorry for calling you dead, Sherlock.” said John

He raised his left hand to put on the taller man’s shoulder, but as his hand reached Sherlock’s shoulder, it slid right through it, like he was trying to touch cloud. Sherlock chuckled but it didn't touch his eyes. John’s stomach tied in knots. He wanted to help Sherlock; he’d do anything in his powers to get him out of this dreadful state. But there wasn't much in his powers that would truly help Sherlock.

“Oh I’m _so, so_ sorry, Sherlock.” murmured John as moisture gathered in his eyes.


	11. Inside You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To solve the case of the pink lady or of the wisp?

John fought back his tears. He wouldn't like Sherlock to see him getting emotional.

Sherlock was staring afar now; John couldn't make out at what he was staring. Probably he was just ignoring eye contact, for which John was rather thankful. John took this chance to rub off the dampness from his eyes.

Sherlock’s expression had quite changed as the moment passed by. John wondered what he was thinking about, how he felt. He didn't say much about how he felt- just that he was in a worse position than John, which was true when John came to think of it.

“I want to help.” said John.

This made Sherlock turn his head towards him, a surprised look on his face. “Do you, really?”

“Yes, of course. How can I help?”

“We can start with finding the pink case.” Sherlock said promptly.

“The _what_?” 

“Jennifer Wilson, the pink lady’s suitcase. Haven’t you been paying any attention, John? There must have been a smallish suitcase with her. The killer must have driver her to the house and forgot the case was in the car. No one can be seen with a pink case without drawing attention- especially if it’s a man, which is statistically more likely- so he had to get rid of it as soon as he realized it was still with him. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. Now, if we could check every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from the house, Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose a bulky object without being observed—" Sherlock stopped as he noticed John staring perplexedly at him. “What?”

“You want me to help you find the bloody case?” said John blankly.

“Yes, given the fact that I can’t _touch_ things.” said Sherlock, like it obvious.

“And you think it’s a perfectly fine time to chase a killer?”

“Well, yes. We should be off, without further delay.”

John chuckled. “Sherlock…you’re standing here, and you can’t touch anything, you’re walking through walls, you’re probably dead— or just very light, you have lost your memory and now you want to chase a killer and not find out about yourself?”

Sherlock sighed. “Look John, I might be past help. And I’m not going anywhere. But if we don’t hurry, we might not be able to catch the killer after all.”

“You’re right—"

“Thank you.”

“You can’t be my hallucination. Because my hallucination wouldn't be _this_ mad!”

“Well, I—“ Sherlock couldn't come up with something that he thought would convince John. “Well, then…I reckon I’ll just have to do it with or without your permission.” 

Before John could understand what he meant by this, Sherlock was up to what he intended to do.

John only saw Sherlock approaching him gingerly; looking at John like a scientist looks at the object he’s experimenting. He came ever so close to John, leaving no space between the two of them. He was now so close to him that John could see the roots of his eyelashes, and that glasz eyes that you could dive into. John was so mesmerized by the magnificence of his eyes that he didn't notice the motive in them. Sherlock didn't stop advancing towards him, and with another step he vanished.

John’s eyes widened as his body gave a violent shake, and then he went rigid. He felt like he was going to be sick. The next second, his limbs started to move. _What the hell is happening?_ –John thought to himself, but he couldn't find his voice. If what he thought was happening was right, then _Sherlock_ was doing this; Sherlock was inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, how long has it been since my last update? I'm sorry, don't kill me D: Couldn't write for various reasons, and sorry again, if anyone was waiting for it.
> 
> I've said this before on a note that I haven't given much detail of the case because it's the same case as in the series and it'd be boring to read it again here. But for those who don't know it by heart, there are some words that might confuse you- Lauristion Gardens is the house where the body was found. And Jennifer Wilson is the dead woman.
> 
> Can't promise when the next update will be. But _hopefully_ soon.


	12. Proving A Point

Was it possible? Could a spirit possess a human body? Was Sherlock doing the same to John?

John didn't quite like the sound of it. But his body was moving involuntarily. And he was quite sure now that Sherlock was doing this; because he was now running through different back streets and rampaging through skips and random stacks of filthy things. If anyone had seen him, they would think he was looking for something desperately. But what they would not understand is that it wasn't John who was running amok looking for something, it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock who was forcing John to act this way by possessing his body at that moment and he was looking for the pink suitcase.

It was because John had thought it crazy to help him find the suitcase instead of trying to discover more about himself that Sherlock had come to this decision.

To John, Sherlock was now a more complicated puzzle than the case in hand, which had to be solved as soon as possible. John felt it should be their first priority.

But Sherlock couldn't quite agree to that. He had to solve the case. So he made John run through all the possible areas where the killed could have driven through and hidden the suitcase. After about an hour of this exhaustion, John’s eyes finally caught a glimpse of shocking pink in the midst of all the garbage in the waste bin. _This is amazing! So Sherlock was right._ – thought John. He pulled out the suitcase and checked the label on it. It was Jennifer Wilson’s suitcase. If John could, he would yelp with excitement. But before he could even try to do so, he started to feel sick again, his stomach made a funny noise. Squeezing his eyes shut, he clutched his stomach and bend forward. He realized that he could move willing again. He opened his eyes and straightened up to find Sherlock standing before him, a slight smirk on his face.

“This is the pink lady’s case, Jennifer Wilson’s case!” huffed John.

“Yes.”

“That was amazing!” the excitement on John’s face was apparent.

“You think so?”

“Yes, of course. It was extraordinary how you did that.” John saw the puzzlement in Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was expecting him to be angry after what he did to him. But in truth, he wasn't angry at all. “Though I did not enjoy _that_.” He added.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “No? Well, your face says otherwise.”

“What does my face say exactly?”

“That you enjoyed it very much.”

“Enjoyed what?”

“The thrill. You have missed this, haven’t you?”

John looked away. He didn't want to answer that.

Sherlock realized that it wasn't right of him to ask that. “It also says that your limp really was psychosomatic.” added Sherlock.

John looked back at him. Sherlock motioned with his head towards John’s empty hand. There was no walking stick there. He had been running without its help, and he had forgotten about it completely. A smile began to appear on John’s face. The walking stick must have fallen out of his hand while Sherlock possessed his body and made him run. Sherlock grinned to match the smile on John’s face.

“So you were proving your point as well as finding the suitcase?” said John

Sherlock nodded. “Now, let’s go home so we can get to the root of it.”

* * *

“There’s no phone.” said Sherlock, out of the blue.

They were now in Sherlock’s bedroom, the suitcase open on the bed. John was examining all the things in it, hoping to find something that would be helpful, but getting nowhere. Sherlock was seated before him, his long legs crossed, his elbows resting on them and his long pale fingers steepled under his chin. Though he couldn't touch the things, he was scanning it all with his eyes.

Everything in the suitcase seemed useless to John. Just when he was about to declare that it was futile to look through these things, Sherlock announced that there was so phone.

“What do you mean?”  


“There’s no phone. There was no phone with the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one, there’s her number on the label.”

“Couldn't she have left it at home?”

“No, not likely. She had a string of lover and she was careful about it. She would never leave her phone at home.”

“She could have lost it.”

Sherlock’s face brightened all of a sudden. He looked at John, a playful smile on his face.“Yes. Or… "

Then it hit John. “The murderer… You think the murderer has her phone?”

“Maybe she left it with her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has the phone.”

John couldn't keep seated anymore. He jumped on his feet and started pacing the room with his hands on his hips. “Can’t we just…” That’s when he saw it. On the shelf, which was placed beside his dressing cabinet, among other things there was a framed photograph of two young boys. One of the boys was with dark curly hair, evidently that was Sherlock. He was even slenderer then. Standing beside him on the photograph was an obese boy with brown hair and a hook nose. John took the photo frame in his hand. “Sherlock… who’s this?”

Sherlock appeared behind him. Looking at the photo over John’s shoulder, his brows knitted and he let out a long sigh. “That… is my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't know, I didn't make up the photograph thing. According to Mark Gatiss there is a photograph of Sherlock and his then-obese brother, Mycroft in their youth in Sherlock's bedroom.
> 
> I didn't have time to re-read it and edit it. So, sorry if there are any mistakes! Feel free to point them out.


	13. Brother Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone pays John a visit.

Outside of 221B, a man in three piece suit could be seen standing with a long umbrella, using it like a walking stick. His pale green suit was a little oversized; one would think that he had recently lost a bit of weight. He gazed lazily at the closed door of 221B, sighing he straightened the knocker out of habit. He took his silver cased pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and checked the time before knocking twice on the door. Without waiting for someone to answer the door, he swiftly took out a key and opened the door of the flat with it.

As he got inside he saw a sandy haired man rushing down the stairs in hurried pace. The man stopped in his tracks as he saw the other man standing at the door.

“You’ve let yourself in, I see.” said the sandy haired man quite casually.

“John Watson, I believe.” said the man closing the door behind him.

“Mycroft Holmes… I believe?” said John

The man was truly taken aback at this, but he was careful not to let on. Instead of asking how he came to know his name, narrowing his eyes slightly, he smirked.

“You don’t look very surprised.” said the man

“You don’t look very _surprising_.” said John, coming down the stairs and standing right in front of Mycroft. John could see he was not obese anymore, he was rather slender. 

The man forced another smile before saying “I’m not going to waste my time by asking how you came to know my name—"

“I’m going to tell you all the same; your brother told me.”

The man genuinely chuckled this time. “Sure, he did. Didn’t he also tell you that he considered me his archenemy?” John frowned at this. The man pulled a serious face again. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t have one. I just moved into the flat.” said John casually 

“And since then you’ve gone to a crime scene mentioning Sherlock Holmes’ name, helping the Scotland Yard officials with your _deductions_.” he pressed the last word. “As far as I know, my brother is unreachable at the present time.”

“I was just helping him.”

“Oh believe me, Dr. Watson, the state my brother is in right now, I doubt it very much that you out of all people would be able to help him.” The man took a moment before advancing towards John’s direction very slowly and said in an undertone, “I don’t know what your game is Dr. Watson or why you’re pretending to have known Sherlock Holmes, but if you try to be sinister… I will know.” 

It seemed to John that the man was threatening him and was trying to frighten him, which was not going to happen. He was rather getting on his nerves at this point. “Are we done?” said John through gritted teeth.

“You tell me.” said the man in his same lazy tone. “I imagine someone has already warned you about me, but in case you didn’t take it seriously last time, I might as well remind you- _stay out of it,_ Dr. Watson.”

Without waiting for an answer the man turned and went out of the flat, leaving John breathing heavily with rage in his wake.

* * *

The phone rang twice before the man on the other side picked it up.

“Myc.” said the man.

“Urgh don’t call me that, Greg.” said Mycroft

Lestrade chuckled. “How did it go?”

“I don’t think it is going to work, to be honest.” said he as he got into his car.

"Bummer."

"I even sent Mrs. Hudson away so he wouldn't question her and interfere."

"Why would you do that?" Greg paused, waiting for an answer. But when it didn't come, he said. “But, look, if Sherlock did send him—“

“He _did not_ , Greg. He can’t.”

“What do you mean he can’t? Where is he anyway? I haven’t seen him for weeks. That’s why I was so surprised to see that he had sent someone. But then again, it’s Sherlock.” Greg chuckled again. But Mycroft didn’t.

“It’s not that, Greg. I... I think it’s time I told you all about it.” said Mycroft, sighing.

“Tell me what?”

“Can you meet me at Bart’s?” said Mycroft, ignoring his question.

“ _Bart’s?_ Why Bart’s? Can’t we just go to a café?” Greg joked again.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Can you, or can you not?”

“Now?”

“If you’re not too busy.”

“No, I can get off.”

“See you there then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, it's been three months since my last update. I had exams and then I got writer's block; and you know when you've got plenty of time, you just can't get things done, that's what happened :p  
> I hope those who were following the story are still interested in it!


	14. Dead or Not Dead

As soon as Mycroft left, John turned towards Sherlock, who was standing just behind him. He put his hands on his hips with his elbows out to the sides. “Of all the things you warned me about, I don’t recall you mentioning your brother being a dick.” said John, glaring at Sherlock “He’s worse than you are.”

Sherlock didn’t move, nor did he look at John, he just kept staring at the closed door. “Did you hear what he said?” said he slowly  


“Every word; set my teeth on edge.”  


“No, he said _‘the state my brother is in right now’_ and _‘my brother is unreachable at the present time’_ – his exact words…” His eyes widened and he looked at John with an excited expression. 

“Do you see, John?”  


John narrowed his eyes. “Um…no. What are you on about?”  


“I’m not dead, John. I’m _alive_.”  


"What?!" John squawked. "How can you say that?”  


“From what Mycroft said; he said that _I’m unreachable_ , you couldn’t possibly have known me, which means I’m out of your reach and you wouldn’t or you shouldn’t know where I am; which also suggests that I am out there somewhere, probably somewhere inaccessible.”  


“Oh my god…” John exhaled as he caught on to what Sherlock was saying."Oh my god, yes! Sherlock… I think you're right." John looked at Sherlock with matching expression on his face.  


"John, we have to go find my body!" said Sherlock in an urgent tone.  


"Yes, then we can maybe figure out how to put you back in your body." said John, his eyes hopeful thinking they had finally found a way.  


Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. Frowning, he grimaced. "Oh don't be ridiculous!"  


John sighed. In his endeavor to make Sherlock understand, he gestured with hands while saying, “Look, I know it sounds a bit eerie but it's happening, isn't it? You are out of your body!”  


Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock considered the fact for a while. "You're probably right. But for that we will have to find my body first."  


"How can we?” John walked to the end of the stairs and sat down on it. His expression not so excited now. “Where do we start?”  


Sherlock started pacing up and down the doorway with his hands together under his chin. "There's no way Mycroft is telling you anything, he had given away too much already."  


"Mike!” said John out of the blue, after a while.  


That distracted Sherlock from his contemplation. He stopped pacing and looked down at John. "Sorry, what?"  


"Mike Stamford. We can ask him; clearly he knows something."  


"What gives you that impression?"  


"The way he behaved when I phoned him to ask about you. It didn't strike me as odd at first, but come to think of it, he was acting strange. He wouldn't tell me where you were, he just told me to move in. We can call him and ask."  


Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "And you think he'll just tell you? If Mycroft is behind this he would leave no loose ends. And clearly he is behind this."  


"We can at least try."  


"Fruitless endeavor.”  


John rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'm calling him."  


John took his phone out of his pocket, dialed Mike Stamford's number. It rang, and kept ringing, until John could hear Mike's voicemail telling him to leave a message. "Hey Mike, it's John. Umm... give me a call when you're free."  


"What did I say?" said Sherlock, raising his eyebrows.  


"Okay don't be so smug, he might be just busy. He'll call back."  


"He _will not_. Don't be so naive. He's not picking up on purpose, he's ignoring you, he has been warned."  


John sighed thoughtfully. “You’re probably right.” He paused for a moment before adding, “He probably didn’t know anything at first, that’s why he told me about you wanting a flat-share. If he knew anything then, he wouldn't have told me about you. But when you didn’t come to meet us and I had to call Mike the next day, I think he was trying to put me off. So he was informed afterwards.”  


“Was I supposed to meet you? I can’t remember it.” said Sherlock softly. And John could swear he saw a hint of smile on his face.  


John smiled mildly. “Yes, you were, right here. But you never showed up, so we left.”  


Sherlock gave a slight smile; it lingered longer on his face this time. He broke the eye contact and looked away. "He works at Bart's, doesn’t he?"  


"Who, Mike? Yeah."  


"Then let's go to Bart's."  


John's brows knitted. "Why? If Mike isn't receiving my call, what makes you think that he'll meet or tell me anything there?"  


"We're not going there to interrogate Mike. I believe we can find the answer ourselves if we go there."  


"What does that mean?"  


Sherlock looked back at John, a mysterious smile on his face before rushing to the door and walking right through it without answering that question. John tutted and followed him out, remembering to open the door first.


End file.
